Air

by Lisa Glass

  I thought about it. Apart from Daniel smoking weed around me and me possibly inhaling some of his smoke second-hand, I was clean as a whistle. It wasn’t like there were many opportunities to get hardcore drugs in Newquay. Not unless you knew the right people, and I didn’t. Most of my friends were like me: surf junkies, addicted to the stoke of a great wave.

  But then, even though it was stupid, I thought, Maybe I should. Zeke had all these experiences that were mysteries to me, and if I had some experiences of my own, perhaps I’d understand him better.

  “I guess that’s a no.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said, when the door swung open and I heard a posh grammar-school voice ring out, “Iris Fox, what in the name of holy hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that rubbish,” Saskia said. “You’re Zeke’s girlfriend; you know how he’s struggled with drugs, and you’re shoving coke up your nose?”

  “I haven’t done anything!”

  “And even if she did, Zeke would be the last person to judge,” Inga said.

  “Oh, I see you’ve met the super-tramp,” Saskia said, looking at Inga. “I should give yourself a thorough delousing tonight, Iris. Unless you fancy a case of trailer lice.”

  “You think I live in a trailer?”

  “Apologies. I meant kennel lice.”

  “What is your problem? Why are you always such a little bitch?” Inga asked, rolling her eyes.

  “Sas, please don’t say anything about this to Zeke,” I said, because suddenly I absolutely did not want him to know. “It’ll only stress him out.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you started snorting narcotics with Bimbos United.”

  Like a snake striking, Inga lashed out and slapped Saskia hard on the side of her face.

  Saskia looked completely furious and for a second I thought she was going to hit Inga back, but instead she said, “Which does rather prove my point,” and she sailed out of the bathroom like a queen.

  I chased after Saskia, but she said, “I really don’t want to speak to you now.”

  “Please don’t tell Zeke.”

  Gabe appeared at our side and said, “This party blows. They don’t even have pizza. What is this?” he said, holding up a tiny salmon canapé.

  “I agree,” Saskia said. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re leaving?” Zeke said, and drowned the dregs of a beer.

  “No question,” Gabe said. “Twenty different kinds of cocktails, but no food bigger than a quarter? The insanity must cease.”

  “Chase has a driver who’ll probably give you a ride,” Zeke said.

  “It’s fine,” Saskia said in a frosty voice. “We’re perfectly capable of making our own way back.”

  “Everything OK, Sas?” Zeke asked.

  I waited for her to mention the coke incident, but she just straightened the straps of her nightgown and said, “Oh, everything’s wonderful.”

  Before she left, Saskia kissed me on both cheeks, but did it without a word or a smile, which Zeke missed, as he was looking over his shoulder toward the bar, now ten deep in waiting guests.

  He turned back to me, positioned his mouth so it was right over my ear and said, “You wanna come for a walk with me?”

  A walk sounded like bliss.

  “Do you know where you’re going, or are we planning to get lost?”

  “Golf course.”

  “To do what?” I said, a bit suspicious. On the few occasions we’d slept together outdoors, it had never gone well. On one particular occasion, both of us drunk, we’d been messing about on a beach in South Africa when a young bloke carrying a fishing rod and a bait bucket spotted us from a distance, got out his phone and took a photo.

  “Talk.”

  “Just that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Won’t Chase mind if we bail?”

  “We’re not bailing. We’re coming back; we’re just taking a walk first.”

  And so we walked until we found the green, where we lay back and looked again at the sky, which lasted five minutes at most, before the kissing started, and from there other things. Suddenly Zeke stopped, and we both sat up.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “I was thinking about Arron.” He closed his eyes.

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him too.”

  “Chase said I can have a job here, if I want. In his dad’s firm.”

  I cocked my head, unsure if he was serious. “In Miami? Doing what?”

  “Real estate. He works high-end, makes between fifty and a hundred grand commission on every sale.”

  “Are you taking the mick? You want to stop surfing and become an estate agent?”

  “I could still surf here, but I know, it’s crazy. I was just thinking about it, is all. Obviously I’m not gonna do that.”

  “Good! For one thing you’d have to get a haircut and wear a suit every day. Although you could use the haircut.”

  “It’s more money than I make now. A lot more. And Chase thinks I’d be good at it.”

  “You probably would, but you’d hate it, and who in their right mind would give up the best job in the world to make a bit of extra money? Madness.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. And anyhow, it’s likely just Chase being Chase.”

  I was sitting cross-legged, and Zeke stretched out and laid his head in my lap.

  We stayed like that for twenty minutes, both of us lost in our thoughts, when, finally, a dozen of the other partygoers spilled out on to the greenway.

  It was only when I said, “I think we should go now,” that I realized he was asleep.

  “Really, Zeke?” I said, not able to hide the frustration in my voice. “Again?”

  “Too many whiskies,” he said, sitting bolt upright, like he’d been caught out doing something reprehensible. “But I feel better now.”

  “You wanna blow off the party and find a club?” he said, his voice normal again, the mask of I’m OK firmly in place.

  “Yeah,” I said. I’d had just about enough of the lingerie party.

  We walked hand in hand back to the house, and relayed our plan to Chase.

  “You can’t go clubbing in boxers,” Chase said, “Not even in Miami.”

  “Ya think? Can you lend me a shirt and pants?”

  “What about me then?” I said. I unbuttoned my shirt to show Chase what I had on underneath, and he appraised the vest/shorts combo.

  “That’s tame by Miami standards. Lose the shirt and you’re all set. Or I guess my mom might have something you could borrow . . .”

  I looked at Chase’s mum, who was at least two sizes bigger than me, and said, “Um, we’re not the same size.”

  “How about Amber?” Zeke asked. “She can probably loan you a dress.”

  “She’s about two sizes smaller than me.”

  “She is?”

  “Er, yes. I’m usually a ten or twelve, depending on the brand, and she’s probably an eight. Or a six.”

  “You’re a twelve?” Zeke said.

  “Yeah. A British twelve. How do you not know that?”

  “I’m supposed to go through your clothes and look at the labels?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s go, but you are both banned from taking pictures, got it?”

  Zeke went to change into Chase’s clothes and came back wearing a very loud shirt and skinny jeans three inches too short. Chase made him wear this outfit with a trilby hat, which was quite the contrast with Zeke’s scruffy surfer hair.

  “I think I have a cab number,” Zeke said, looking for a card in his wallet.

  “No need,” Chase said, nodding his head at the white stretch limousine parked up closest to the gates. The driver, who’d been on a smoke break, caught Chase’s eye and put out his cigarette.

  “To Flavor!” Chase said.

  chapter sixteen


  Leaning over the pool table, my knee hitched up over one side to get the best position, I cracked the cue as hard as I could, blasting the white down the table. It caught the stripe on the left side and sent it spinning into the bottom pocket.

  “Banzai,” I said, punching the air and grinning at Zeke. He sat down on one of the sofas set around the pool table and leaned back into tapestry cushions, legs stretched out in front of him, readying himself for imminent defeat.

  I lined up my next shot and potted another stripe. I didn’t think I could get away with punching the air again, so I went with, “I bloody love pool.”

  He hooked his foot over his other knee, and the second he did it, Chase swooped in, laughing, and ran away with his shoe, holding it to his chest like a baby.

  “Random,” I said to Zeke, and we watched Chase twirling a size-eleven Vans trainer around the pool table.

  “You gotta get some new hobbies, bro,” Zeke said to Chase, sinking his fifth JD and Coke.

  “Erm, why does he have your shoe?” I said.

  “Tradition,” was Chase’s only reply.

  I went after him to retrieve Zeke’s trainer, but Zeke didn’t seem bothered. He stood up lopsidedly, sock on the sticky floor, and picked up his own pool cue.

  “Hey, I haven’t finished,” I said. “It’s still my turn, thank you very much.”

  “My bad. Show me how it’s done, boss.”

  He sat down again, cue between his knees, and I sank another stripe, leaving only one of my balls on the table, along with the black and Zeke’s five spots.

  Chase deposited Zeke’s shoe on the top of the metal lamp hanging over the table and said, very seriously, “Surrender, Ezekiel. A guy just can’t come back from this kind of epic ass-whooping.”

  “Sure he can,” Zeke said, grabbing his shoe and looking determined. “That’s literally the story of my pro-surfing career right there. Which barroom legend taught you how to shoot pool, Iris?”

  Daniel. My ex-boyfriend Daniel taught me how to play. In the first autumn, when the weather was hideous, the waves were a mess and the only thing to do was hang around Newquay’s excuse for a youth club and kill time until the ocean was surfable again.

  But I didn’t want to talk about Daniel, especially not to Zeke, given that they absolutely hated each other.

  Zeke put on his shoe and stuffed the laces down the side. He never tied his laces, even when he went jogging, for reasons that were unclear to me.

  “Kelly’s really good at pool,” I said, which wasn’t a lie, because my best mate was brilliant at pool, but it wasn’t exactly a truthful answer either. “Want me to pot something for you?” I offered. “Get your balls out of the way of my shot on the black?”

  “It’s all about the balls, dude,” Chase chipped in. “And Iris is handing you yours.”

  I could see a flicker of annoyance on Zeke’s face as Chase teased him about his dodgy pool skills.

  Then the cloud passed and he laughed. He tucked some hair behind his ear, and just looking at the curve of his jawline gave me an attack of the butterflies. Cue still in my hand, I went and kissed him, but he withdrew from me after about three seconds.

  There it was again: that horrible feeling. Something was wrong. Something about Zeke was different.

  No.

  I had to stop obsessing about Zeke being different in Miami. Like he said, he was on vacation. Of course he wanted to relax. He’d had a few drinks, but he wasn’t hammered. He just wanted to concentrate on our game of pool without being mauled.

  I’d obviously inherited the stressing-out-over-nothing gene from my mother. Why couldn’t I just let myself enjoy it? The hassle of life back in Newquay was behind me. Homework, housework, drizzle, annoying customers—I didn’t need to worry about any of it anymore. I was in a foreign country with new friends, new waves and new adventures.

  Zeke went off to the bar and queued behind a throng of sorority sisters and football players who were milling around. I didn’t take my eyes off him, my mind jumping ahead to our hotel room. The alcohol would take the edge off my nerves, which was just as well, as my body was about as relaxed as a headstone.

  Then, as if he sensed I was staring, he looked over his shoulder and blew me a kiss, and I felt my cheeks flush red. He’d quite often do dorky stuff like that, not caring how it looked to other people.

  I dropped my gaze back to the pool table and potted my last stripe, but I messed up the white positioning and couldn’t get a clear shot on the black. I was snookered.

  I walked slowly around the table, bending to look at the balls at eye level, even though I knew it was an impossible shot.

  This was the first thing that Daniel had taught me. If you’ve got no play and people are watching, you have to make out that you’ve got it in hand, that you know what you’re doing. So you front. You take your time and observe; pretend you’re just working out the angles. Then, when you mess up, it seems to everyone else like you had a strategy: you were going for some insane trick shot, not flying blind.

  I knew this type of bluffing was pathetic, but it was also fast becoming my surfing strategy.

  Zeke came back, trying not to spill my pink drink with its tiny little umbrella. He had two beer bottles in his other hand. I walked up to him, wrapped my arms over his shoulders, bending to drink some of my cocktail in the process. It was so strong it made my eyes water.

  “Go easy—the bartender put, like, five shots in there.”

  “OK, I’ll sip it. How much do I owe you?”

  “I wasn’t letting you pay anyhow, but it turns out happy hour was just about to start. Chicks drink for free. Guys drink half-off.”

  “Whaaat? Free drinks?”

  What kind of bar was this that could offer free drinks? And why didn’t they have places like it in Newquay?

  “Yeah, I mean I tipped the guy a few dollars and all—he’s making minimum wage.”

  “Can I get another one? Actually, maybe another two, since they’re free?”

  Which I knew was pushing it a bit, especially with my promise not to puke.

  “Lady, you are gonna be so drunk after just that one that I’m gonna have to carry you all the way back to the hotel.”

  “Think of it as good cardio,” I said.

  Zeke held up a brown bottle and handed it to Chase, “Here. Porkslap. It’s a kind of beer.”

  Chase held it in two fingers, squinted at the label and handed it back to Zeke.

  “You know what?” he said. “I love you like a brother, man, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but consider it yours. I need to get me a latte I have serious caffeine withdrawal going on here.”

  He sidled off to the glitzy coffee bar, where I watched him set the barista to work on some novelty coffee concoction.

  Zeke looked down at the pool table, “Huh, looks like you don’t have a makeable shot.”

  “Course I do.”

  I whacked the white, missed the black by a foot and sat down with my drink.

  My teasing obviously brought out the super-competitive side of Zeke, because he potted all five of his spots without breaking a sweat. Had he been hustling me? Or just trying to give me a chance? Both ideas annoyed me.

  Then he paused to look at me, like he was asking for my approval to sink the black.

  I shrugged, as if I didn’t care, but I was rattled, because the black was only about two inches from the pocket, and even though the white was right up against the top cushion, it was still an easy shot.

  “So, what’s Chase’s real name?” I asked, hoping to put him off his game.

  “Hey, I already told you I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”

  I picked at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. “I assumed you were kidding. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is I gave the guy my word.”

  “But you were, what, seven?”

  Zeke stretched back, looked down the cue and sent the black hammering into the bottom right
pocket. He was just going to seal the win with his signature double-shotgun surf claim, when the white bounced off the top cushion and followed the black into the pocket.

  My win.

  “Ha ha, Mister Always-Wins-at-Everything. You lose.”

  Zeke slammed his cue back into the rack and took a swig of his Porkslap. I danced about, making an L on my forehead, but after a few seconds I backed off, because even though Zeke was smiling, there was this fierce look in his eyes. He really hated to lose. At anything.

  I’d seen that look before, when he competed in surf contests, but I’d never seen him use it on me.

  He had another swig of beer and without saying another word he drifted away toward one of the big screens showing a basketball game.

  As I was putting my cue in the rack, a stranger’s voice said, “Damn, she fine,” and I felt someone graze their fingers across the back of my shorts.

  chapter seventeen

  I flinched and spun around to face two guys in football jackets. The first looked like an even skinnier version of Eminem and his friend was a ball of bad acne and garlic halitosis, which I found out when he breathed down the words, “Hell yeah, she fine.”

  I was far from fine in the English sense of the word, and I wasn’t fine in the American sense either. I instantly regretted my choice of outfit. I knew I should’ve gone back to the hotel and got changed. A flash of leg and some Lycra was evidently all it took to get the attention of these desperados.

  Zeke still had his back to me, so he didn’t see what was happening. The guy moved closer and held his hand out again, his fingers splayed.

  I could feel myself staring at them, still not believing that they were genuinely being this gross. Was it some kind of bad joke?

  For a few moments I was speechless, and then, when a punch line didn’t arrive, I got it together and said to the Eminem-alike, “OK, let me stop you right there. Any part of you that touches me, you’re not getting back” which was Kelly’s standard phrase for any creeps who tried to feel her up in crowded pubs or on public transport. I’d never had to use it before, but Kelly said it usually worked.

  “Man, that accent. Australian or British?”